Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  “Well, well,” he said. “Once more we meet in an empty stable when most other reasonable people are abed.”

  “Is sleep eluding you as well?” d’Artagnan asked, well aware of Aramis’ insomniac tendencies.

  “Sleep generally eludes me,” Aramis replied, “or leads me on a merry chase before conceding defeat, at the very least. What of you, though? I’d have thought you’d be enjoying sweet dreams of the lovely Constance this evening.”

  “I may possibly have done something very stupid,” d’Artagnan said miserably. He shook his head in reply to Aramis’ questioning noise, grabbing a second rag and a bridle from the pile the other man was working on before sliding down the wall across from him and rubbing fitfully at the dry leather. To his relief, Aramis let him be, and the two of them worked silently for a few minutes before the peace was shattered by the sound of piteous mewling.

  A small, gray kitten stuck its nose out from behind a pile of hay, and slunk into view along the wall until it was close enough to leap onto the barrel, and then, to Aramis’ shoulder. From this new perch, it observed d’Artagnan with a baleful gaze, even as the rumble of contented purring filled the space between them.

  “Ah. Back again, I see,” Aramis said, making no attempt to dislodge the little beast.

  “New friend of yours?” d’Artagnan asked, eager for any distraction from his thoughts.

  “She seems to have decided that my shoulder offers a better view of the barn than her usual haunts,” Aramis said. “Really, d’Artagnan; I'm shocked. Has no one mentioned to you before that females find me irresistible? I shall need to have words with the others; what an unconscionable oversight on their part.”

  D’Artagnan’s eyes fell back to the straps in his lap. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same of myself after last night,” he said, deciding that a bit of commiseration from a sympathetic listener was worth the embarrassment of relating his faux pas.

  Aramis’ keen gaze was on him in an instant. “If you are referring to Constance,” said the other man, “I am fairly certain you’re mistaken in your assessment. What in heaven’s name happened between the two of you after you left us, to leave you so downtrodden?”

  “I kissed her,” d’Artagnan said miserably. “But she was offended, and did not want me, so I apologized and left.”

  “Considering the way she was looking at you earlier in the evening, I find that to be... surprising, to say the least. Did she push you away? Tell you to go?”

  “Not exactly,” replied d’Artagnan. “She froze, and did not respond at all to my advances. It was obvious she wanted me to stop. So I did.”

  “As you should have, certainly,” Aramis allowed. “Still, did she say nothing to you about it afterward?”

  “Not really, no. Though it’s... possible that I didn’t really give her a chance to do so. I left fairly hastily in the aftermath.”

  “Ah, callow youth,” Aramis murmured under his breath, ignoring the kitten as it batted playfully at a lock of his hair. He continued at a more normal volume. “D’Artagnan, it seems obvious, having seen the two of you together, that she is attracted to you. I don’t know why she reacted the way she did. Perhaps you moved too fast with your advances, or caught her by surprise in the moment. The only way to find out is to ask her and listen to whatever she has to say. Don’t give up on things without finding out the truth of it first. All right?”

  D’Artagnan thought through his friend’s words, realizing that he had, indeed, allowed his own discomfort to take precedence over finding out what the problem truly was. “I will,” he said after a moment. “Thank you, Aramis.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Aramis said magnanimously. His careless shrug dislodged the little cat clinging to his shoulder, and she leapt to the ground with a startled hiss. Aramis flinched and reached up to tug his collar to the side, revealing an angry, red claw mark where neck met shoulder. He huffed a laugh at himself, and added, “I should also mention that females can occasionally be fickle creatures.”

  * * *

  The following day, when Constance came to the house to talk with Milady about the position of wet nurse, d’Artagnan contrived to speak to her privately for a few moments. He apologized again for kissing her, and asked how he had offended her. She would only reply that he had not offended her in the least, and seemed confused at his insistence on the subject, which in turn left him confused.

  As time passed, Constance continued to seek out his company. She began spending most of her time at M. Rougeux’s chateau, helping with the baby and acting as a lady’s maid for the Queen, a position that obviously delighted her. D’Artagnan found her presence as alluring as he had the first day he’d met her, but he was also increasingly frustrated by the way she seemed to solicit his advances, while simultaneously reacting to his touch with something suspiciously close to revulsion. With no idea how to address the problem, d’Artagnan resolved to be a friend to her, and nothing more.

  That did not, however, stop him waking at night from dreams of her that left him shamefully heated and wanting.

  Ten days after the decision to move the troops to Chartres, the Queen decreed that her son was strong enough to make the journey. A messenger was sent ahead, bearing a letter with both the royal seal and the seal of Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron, to warn the city officials of their arrival three days hence. Belongings were packed in preparation for an early start the next morning. The troops celebrated and caroused long into the night.

  The morning of July twenty-third dawned clear and bright. D’Artagnan, riding a horse borrowed from one of the townsfolk, made his way through the remains of the camp, overseeing the final loading of the wagons and carts. Detritus littered the trampled dirt and grass of the village green, but the caravan was finally ready to move out in the wake of the lines of foot soldiers arrayed behind d’Aumont and his lieutenants. They awaited only the Queen’s retinue.

  The sound of horses approaching from west of the church heralded Her Majesty’s arrival, and d’Artagnan rode forward to meet them as they came into view around the walls of the chapel. He had some idea of what to expect, but that didn’t stop him from catching his breath at the sight which greeted him.

  No fragile flower enclosed in a gilded carriage, the Queen led her procession riding astride and wearing the bespoke armor that d’Artagnan had earlier mistaken for that of a youth. The camp’s blacksmith had outdone himself. The cuirass shone in the dawn light. Her Majesty’s crown rested on the sparkling chain mail coif that draped over her head and neck. Spaulders and vambraces protected her shoulders and arms. The glint of a spur peeked out from voluminous skirts that perfectly matched the color of the aged yellow gelding she rode.

  D’Artagnan blinked, and blinked again. The old pony he had ridden since childhood strode forward with an arched neck and a bearing regal enough to match that of its rider, almost as if the beast could sense the honor that it had received. A gleaming metal champron covered the gelding’s face from ears to muzzle, matching the style of the Queen’s armor exactly. In the rays of early morning sunlight, the horse’s shiny coat was not the color of a buttercup—it was the color of beaten gold.

  Behind the Queen, Constance—riding the broom-tailed mare and bearing the infant King in a sling close to her breast—rode side by side with Milady. Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and de Tréville were arrayed around them protectively. A gap on the Queen’s left caught d’Artagnan’s attention, and suddenly, ridiculously, he found his eyes burning with unshed tears.

  That was the place they had made for him.

  Chapter IV: July 23rd, 1631

  THE COLUMN OF SOLDIERS and royalty marched steadily northeast as the day progressed. After much discussion, it was agreed that they would travel north of Illiers-Combray in case enemy troops were still using the town as a base. While Porthos had argued vigorously that they should sweep through the area and root out any remaining enemy soldiers as they went, de Tréville pointed out that if even a single rider escaped to re
port to Isabella that they were on the move toward Chartres, it would speed the inevitable military response against them. The Queen agreed.

  This suited d’Artagnan quite well, as Illiers-Combray was a place he never wanted to see again after having been captured there with Athos—forced to listen helplessly as the other man was tortured. Unfortunately, the alternate northern route did require them to travel through Chassant—a place Aramis had once described as “a village of ghosts”—along with several other small towns hit hard by the plague.

  Whether Chassant had truly surrendered its last souls to abandonment and death, or whether those that still lived were frightened into hiding by the show of military might marching through their town, they saw no one as they passed. Still, a faint stench of decay hung in a pall over the area, and many of the soldiers tied kerchiefs over their faces out of fear that the miasma might sicken them as it had sickened the townsfolk.

  Progress was slow, limited by the pace of the men on foot. De Tréville had insisted that they make for the small town of Bailleau-le-Pin as their stopping point on the first day, covering slightly more than eight of the fourteen leagues that separated La Croix-du-Perche from Chartres. In this way, they would arrive at their final destination the following day with some daylight left, and hopefully be able to speak with the city’s elders, gaining shelter within Chartres before nightfall.

  It was quite a reasonable distance to cover for a rider, and not out of the question for someone on foot, but the sheer size of the retinue seemed to slow the pace to a near-crawl. D’Artagnan found himself surprised by Her Majesty’s fortitude and endurance while riding in heavy armor so soon after giving birth. However, he soon realized that she must have been riding and camping rough with de Tréville for weeks after the attack on the castle at Blois, trying to stay one step ahead of the assassins who would have seen her dead.

  Today, it was Constance who was struggling. By her own admission, she seldom rode, for all that she seemed to have a magic touch with Grimaud’s cantankerous mare. Now, not only was she riding all day; she had the small, warm weight of Her Majesty’s son hanging across her chest and shoulder in his sling. D’Artagnan kept close to her, splitting his attention between watching her surreptitiously and scanning their surroundings for danger.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly when the troops stopped for a brief midday meal on a lonely stretch of road.

  “I’ll manage,” Constance said gamely. “Here, take the baby so I can get down for a few minutes and stretch my legs.”

  Before d’Artagnan could defer, Constance carefully handed the young King down to him, and he found himself with an arm full of wriggling infant. The sweet, milky smell of the baby unlocked long-forgotten memories of holding his baby sister when he was only a boy himself, and he instinctively moved to cradle the small form, supporting his head. One tiny arm that had freed itself from the swaddling waved around for moment before catching in his hair and tugging fitfully.

  Clambering down stiffly from the saddle, Constance paused, looking at him. “Holding an infant is a good look for you, d’Artagnan,” she said. “I think I like it.”

  Once again, d’Artagnan was thrown by her words. At that instant, though, the baby whimpered and began to cry. “I’m afraid it’s you he wants right now,” he said, relinquishing the hungry child back into his nurse’s arms and trying not to catch his breath as their hands brushed.

  The moment was interrupted by the Queen’s approach, and they stepped apart.

  “How is he, Constance?” asked Her Majesty.

  “He wants feeding right now,” Constance said over the baby’s squalling, “but he’s been a joy to ride with, Your Majesty. I think he likes the motion of the horse.”

  The Queen smiled. “I am not surprised. He comes from a long line of fine horsemen. His father was trained in equitation by de Pluvinel himself, after all. Come, Constance. There is shade by the side of the road, and I can see that you’re tired. Milady is procuring refreshment for us.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Constance dipped into a curtsy and followed the Queen, flashing d’Artagnan a quick smile over her shoulder as she left.

  A moment later, an arm draped over d’Artagnan’s shoulder and a chunk of bread was pressed into his hand.

  “They are truly remarkable, are they not?” Aramis said from beside him, his gaze moving over the three beautiful women settling themselves under a large tree next to the road.

  “Yes, they are,” d’Artagnan said, unable to keep the faint note of wistfulness from his tone. Forcing his attention away from Constance, he tore a chunk from the bread and ate it, trying not to think too much on the soft look in Constance’s eyes as she’d watched him holding the baby.

  * * *

  The afternoon saw clouds move in, turning the sky slate gray. Rain showers pelted royalty, riders, infantrymen, and supply wagons alike, but there was nothing for it except to keep going. Her Majesty led, riding as tall and unconcerned in the saddle as if they were strolling through the grounds of the Louvre on a sunny day, while next to her, Constance hunched forward protectively over the young King with an oilskin cloak draped over both of them to keep off the worst of the rain. With the light fading early because of the low clouds, they were still a league or so shy of Bailleau-le-Pin when de Tréville finally called a halt. It was a dreary, dispirited company that quickly erected tents for a makeshift overnight camp in the deepening dusk, eating cold rations rather than fight to keep cooking fires burning in the intermittent drizzle.

  D’Artagnan huddled inside a damp tent shared with Porthos, Aramis, and three other soldiers he didn’t know by name. The smell of steaming, unwashed bodies filled the small space. He was awakened from a fitful slumber by a hand shaking his shoulder.

  “Get up. It’s time for your watch,” said Athos’ low voice in his ear.

  Shaking the sleep from his head, d’Artagnan mumbled, “I’m up,” and clambered carefully over his comrades. Porthos stirred and grumbled in his sleep. D’Artagnan was unsurprised to see Aramis’ dark eyes on him as he buckled on his weapons—the other man gave him and Athos a small salute from where he lay curled up under his traveling cloak with his head resting on his saddlebags before turning over in an attempt to get back to sleep.

  Milady was sharing the Queen’s tent along with Constance, so Athos removed his hat and sword, settling down in the space d’Artagnan had just vacated for his two hours of guard duty.

  He was pleased to find that the rain had stopped while he slept, revealing patches of stars as the sky cleared. The moon, still obstructed by clouds, would have been a mere sliver even if visible, so the darkness was nearly complete. It was humid; the air seemed to congeal within d’Artagnan’s chest. Clammy sweat was already trickling down his back from even the slight exertion of walking around his assigned patrol area near the royal tent. He kept his senses turned outward, listening for anything that didn’t sound right from the outer reaches of the camp. The only thing that disturbed the night was the occasional sound of guards patrolling the perimeter as they called all-clears to each other in the dark.

  The large number of men meant that guard shifts were short, and after a couple of boring hours in which absolutely nothing of import happened, the eastern sky began to lighten and d’Artagnan returned to his tent to wake the others. As was his habit, Aramis was already up, crouched over a pile of tinder, trying to raise a spark so they might have hot food for breakfast. From his expression, it wasn’t going terribly well.

  An hour-and-a-half and a cold breakfast later, the company pulled out for a second day of travel that would, with luck, see them arrive at their destination. Tempers were short as the rain of the previous day gave way to exhausting heat and humidity, the sun steaming the moisture right back out of the ground. D’Artagnan found himself wishing for a cool stream in which to take a dip, but even if such a thing presented itself, he knew they could not stop. They were vulnerable on the road, and the senior officers agreed that Isa
bella might have been able to raise a large force against them by now. They would reach Chartres today, no matter how uncomfortable the heat.

  As the day wore into afternoon, the unrelenting sun and humidity grew even worse, but they also encountered signs of life on the previously deserted road. The thoroughfare widened, showing signs of recent upkeep—an unusual sight these days. The farmers and tradesmen they met watched them with round, frightened eyes, giving the small army a wide berth. A few fell to their knees upon seeing the Queen at the head of the procession, and d’Artagnan wondered if they recognized her face or merely understood by her armor and retinue that she was a woman of power and consequence.

  Finally, to everyone’s relief, they crested a hill and the fortifications of Chartres came into view in the distance, wavering in the intense heat like a mirage. D’Artagnan stared in amazement, never having seen the like. Farms and scatterings of small houses encircled the city itself, hidden behind protective walls and towers. D’Aumont had described for them the city’s strong defenses—after the plague, most of the remaining inhabitants had retreated within the walls built hundreds of years earlier, surrounded by ditches flooded with water from the Eure river and accessed by only four gates.

  Arriving from the southwest as they were, the Her Majesty’s forces would attempt to gain entrance to the city via the Porte des Épars. D’Aumont assured them that the residents were sympathetic to the late King and Queen Anne, but d’Artagnan had heard Athos and de Tréville talking long into the night about a contingency plan, should d’Aumont’s influence with the city officials prove less than he claimed. As far as d’Artagnan was aware, they had come to no satisfactory conclusion. Everything hinged on their ability to gain access to the city peacefully—they were in no position to take it by force.

  D’Aumont spoke quietly with one of his lieutenants, and the other man spurred his horse into a gallop, riding ahead to announce their arrival. Excitement and nervousness lent d’Artagnan a fresh burst of energy, and he had to forcibly stop himself fidgeting as they slowly covered the final distance to the gate with its narrow drawbridge. The column halted on the other side of the bridge from the city wall, waiting. A few minutes later, d’Aumont’s messenger crossed back to them.